


A Place to Call Home

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Comfort Food, Domestic Fluff, Family Dinners, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: After the Fall, Hannibal and Will have settled, for the moment, in a little white house in the English highlands. Hannibal prepares a special dinner for Will to celebrate their survival, and the potential for their happy future together.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 37
Kudos: 236
Collections: Hannigram_Reverse_Bang_2020





	A Place to Call Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Owenly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owenly/gifts).



> Art done by the wonderful @Leo_of_Belgium (Tumblr) / @leo-of-belgiumn (Twitter)! Thank you for the art prompt, this was such a joy to write <3

Their homestead of the month is not particularly grand or elegant. Hannibal chose something plain by design. It is a little white house atop a hill in the English moors, and there are hiking paths zigging and zagging down to the burbling stream at the bottom of the hill, hidden within a dense copse of trees to defend its source, where it bubbles up out of the Earth. The stream grows wider and stronger a few miles downstream, fed by other underground tributaries gasping for breath. There are fish in the largest swells, and a reservoir even farther down where locals are allowed to fish, provided they have a permit and it is within season.

Will had smiled so widely the first time he saw it. That alone was enough for Hannibal to think about buying it outright, not just renting it under a false name from a landlord who was willing to leave them alone for the right amount of money. It's a twenty-minute drive in their nondescript truck to the nearest village, which has little to offer in the way of entertainment or shopping, but has a thriving farmer's market every Thursday.

Despite the close-knit community, the rest of the villagers are content to leave them alone, for the most part. No one thinks much of the little house on the hill. It is the kind of place that people vaguely acknowledge as habited, but never deign to take a closer look.

Will is out fishing now, and has been for most of the day, leaving Hannibal to tend to the house and make dinner. It will be the first one they have shared with any kind of flair since the fall. Up to this point their meals have been hasty and mostly consisting of whatever can be boiled or eaten raw. Hannibal hasn't complained, realizing that the need to get far away and heal has been the priority.

But they are settling, now. They are able to do things like drink wine and go fishing and visit the markets. Will still has to use a cane, sometimes, when the air is cold, and Hannibal still must be careful with what he eats, lest he aggravate his torn insides, but they are healing.

Despite everything, they survived. They are alive, and able to greet their days together.

The house is small, and has only one bedroom, a master bathroom, a smaller toilet-only bathroom on the lower floor, a kitchen, a living room, and a dining room. The rooms are cramped and the walls are thin. The windows rattle when the wind picks up, and Hannibal has smelled more than one damp spot in the roof that will need fixing before it becomes a problem, should they decide to stay.

He thinks they will stay here. He is comfortable enough, and Will seems to like the place. They are far away from everyone else in the world, in a haven of their own making, and Hannibal is content to simply be with the man he loves.

He wants to show Will that. So, he took the car that morning after Will left, and drove several miles North, over an hour to the nearest city large enough not to notice someone going missing, nor suspect that he would have anything to do with that person's disappearance.

He took a man whom he overheard verbally berating a cashier while he was selecting a bottle of wine. The sheep here are complacent, and think that they are safe. They do not know to be afraid of the predators in the corners, the monsters in the shadows.

The man is lean and yields nicely to Hannibal's knife. He takes the meat from his thighs and shoulders, harvests his intestines to make into sausages, later, and his liver. The rest, he buries in the back garden, where he will plant rose bushes come summertime if they are still here.

He takes flour, eggs, and olive oil, as well as a tiny sprinkling of salt to make the dough. He mourns the loss of his food processor, for how much time it would save if nothing else, but kneading the dough is a meditative task. He works the mixture until the dough is perfectly pliable and supple, and rolls it out, slicing out each individual noodle by hand.

When that is done, he places the noodles carefully in a pot of boiling water, and turns his attention to the zucchini blossoms. The squash is wonderfully ripe, the blossoms full and with a lovely orange-red center. He slices the long spikes from the edges and carefully opens the blossoms to reveal the full, fluffy stamen. He removes them and throws them away, and sets the blossoms to one side.

Will has provided the meat for the most part, the fish proving just as eager to bite at his lures as they ever have been. He's a skilled fisherman, patient and attentive to the lures he makes, and Hannibal made sure there was a place in the living room for him to work on those lures. He likes watching Will work, how his brow will be creased in concentration, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his shoulders hunched up as though physically warding away any distraction. Hannibal has sketched him many times during his work, earning a small flash of Will's eyes, a secretive smile that he eagerly returns.

He smiles to himself, remembering such times, and takes the liver from the fridge with delicate care. He slices it into thick medallions, and carefully rinses them clean of any potential clinging bile and body fluid.

Next, the aioli. Saffron is a spice that is difficult to acquire, especially so far removed from large markets where such a thing might be more readily available. But he managed, wanting that unique flavor and coloration to compliment the blossoms. He steeps two tablespoons in a bowl of warm water.

The house came furnished and, blessedly, had a pestle and mortar in the cabinets. It's small, and made of marble-like white stone. He grinds garlic cloves and salt to form a paste, and then places it in another small bowl with egg yolk, lemon juice, and a small drizzle of Dijon mustard. Again, he wishes he had thought to purchase a food processor, but he is no stranger to making do.

Once the mixture is uniform, he gradually adds grape seed oil, until it begins to emulsify. He whisks it as he adds the olive oil, and when it is ready, he sets the bowl down and covers the bowl of warm water and saffron with a cloth to strain. He pours it into the mixture until there is nothing left to add, and covers it with Clingfilm, and places it in the fridge.

The noodles are ready, at this point, and he strains the water from them and places half of them on a plate each. They glisten with lingering moisture, and he sets them over the heated stove so that they remain warm, covering them with more Clingfilm so they do not dry out.

There is just the matter of preparing the rest of the vegetables, and the liver, now. As he is heating oil in a pan, he hears the front door open, and a jostle of clothes and keys as Will sheds his jacket and shoes, sets his keys in the little bowl by the door, and trudges his way into the kitchen.

Hannibal smiles at him in greeting, happy when Will smiles back. His cheeks are red, hair plastered to his face from sweating his way back up the steep hill. Though the weather is chilly, it is humid, and he smells of the rich silt in the river, of fish, of mud and grass and the promise of a thunderstorm.

Will lifts his chin, sniffs at the air. He arches a brow, and sets his cooler and fishing equipment down by the door. The floors hold a small stain from his wet feet and his messy equipment, but Hannibal doesn't mind. Will is meticulous with the cleanup, even if he is not as immediate as Hannibal is.

"Smells good," he says, shedding his sweater and placing it on top of the pile.

Hannibal smiles. "It will be ready shortly," he replies.

Will nods, understanding the implicit instruction; "I'll go wash up. There's some catch in the cooler. Haul was light today."

Hannibal inclines his head, and watches as Will gathers up everything except the cooler, and leaves the room. He goes to it and takes it, opening it and setting it on the counter. Inside are two fat fish, he's not sure what kind, but they are clearly fresh-caught. Will gutted them before he came home; Hannibal notes his filleting knife, cleaned and tucked away, in the side pocket of the cooler.

Amazing, he thinks, that Will trusts him near such tools after everything they have been through together. Just another way for Will to show how much he trusts and loves Hannibal; he shows his love by showing that he has nothing to fear.

Hannibal wraps the fish and places them in the freezer, and rinses the cooler, setting it by the sink to dry. He returns to his own preparations and places the medallions of liver in the pan, smiling when they immediately pop and sizzle in the oil. He fries them for two minutes on each side, just enough to sear the edges and cook through.

He takes the plates and unwraps them as, above him, the sound of rushing water switches off, the metal rungs on the shower curtain are pushed to one side, and the floorboards creak as Will dries himself off and dresses in their bedroom. Nothing is hidden in this house; everything is heard. Though they have nothing to hide from each other, not anymore.

He gives himself and Will three slices of liver each, and takes the aioli from the fridge. He stirs it, and then drizzles the mixture over the meat, noodles, and zucchini blossoms. In the fat-rich oil left by the liver, he fries up the rest of the zucchini and frames the meat with slices of them, so that the resulting meal is enticing to both the eye and the nose.

Will comes back downstairs and meets him in the dining room, taking his seat as Hannibal sets his plate down. The dining room is as small as the rest of the rooms, only able to fit a four-person table within it. As a result, there is no 'head' of the table, which suits Hannibal just fine. His place at the head position was a symbol of dominance and prowess, neither of which he needs to prove to Will.

"Would you like wine, or water?" he asks. Will has, after all, spent most of his day outside, and is likely dehydrated.

"Water is fine," Will replies. Hannibal nods, and goes back to the kitchen. He pours them each a glass of ice water, and brings them back to the table. Then, after a moment of consideration, he fetches a bottle of wine anyway, and glasses. He opens the bottle to let the wine breathe, but does not pour it immediately.

Will smiles, lopsided and sly. His cheek dimples twice where the scar is from the dragon's knife. It makes every expression just slightly more severe, slightly more menacing when he shows his teeth. Hannibal adores it, just as he adores every mark on Will, every sign of their long, long battle to get to where they are now.

"This looks delicious, Hannibal," Will murmurs. He has taken to verbal praise more, since their settlement. It makes Hannibal feel warm, every time, without fail. "What are we having?"

"Fried liver, with tagliatelle pasta, with zucchini blossoms, and saffron aioli," Hannibal replies. "I made the pasta from scratch – unfortunately the store was somewhat lacking in choice."

Will's smile is sly, like they're sharing an inside joke. "Not for the meat, though," he says. Of course, he knows what Hannibal's preferred meat is. He knows that it is not the kind of thing one simply finds in a store.

Hannibal shakes his head. "The meat was plentiful in the place I visited," he says, answering Will's unspoken, teasing question. "The farmer was negligent. I wasn't seen."

Will hums. He slices through the liver without hesitation, and curls a single noodle around the tines of his fork. The bite drips with aioli like yellowish blood, the blossoms staining the edge of the meat orange. Hannibal has always felt a distinct pleasure, watching people eat at his table, but it has never left him breathless. Not before Will. It's so much more satisfying watching Will eat his offerings, like pleasing an old, nameless god.

Will's lashes lower, flutter in pleasure, as he separates his mouthful from his fork, chews, and swallows it. He sighs, and gives Hannibal another of his wide, dimpled smiles. "I missed this," he says. Hannibal tilts his head to one side, turning his attention to his own meal. "Eating together."

"We've eaten together often, since our last time," Hannibal replies.

Will laughs. "Not like this."

Hannibal nods in agreement. "I wanted to do something special," he explains. "Something to signify yet another chapter in our ever-growing saga."

"I appreciate the gesture," Will says. "Your efforts don't go unnoticed."

Another blossom of warmth starts, in Hannibal's chest. He feels his cheeks grow warm, and knows he cannot blame that on the heat of cooking in the kitchen.

Will notices, of course. His smile doesn't change, he doesn't let his gaze linger longer than it ever has, but Hannibal knows he notices. They begin eating together, sating their empty stomachs with warm, fresh food, the likes of which Hannibal hasn't had the pleasure of making in over three years.

The reminder of that long stretch of time, held in a glass cage, stymies his hands. He swallows, and set his utensils down, and reaches for the wine. Will's eyes lift, watching him pour himself a glass. The wine is a dark, dark red, like old blood in moonlight, near black. It's sweet to counter the saltiness of the meat and the rich, crisp flavor of the aioli, and settles thick on Hannibal's tongue.

Will presses his lips together, once Hannibal is finished with his mouthful of wine. "I trust you were careful," he says. His eyes, so often greyed out these days, since there is so much less light in these parts to reflect and refract and bring a shine to them, are dark. He is not upset, the words are not said in challenge.

Hannibal nods anyway.

He clears his throat. "I would never do anything that would unravel whatever moments of peace we can achieve, until the floor solidifies under our feet."

Will tilts his head, and arches a brow. "Do you still see yourself on stormy waters?" he asks. His tone has taken on that gentle inquisition. Hannibal may be a master at self-actualization, at poking and prodding the subjects that interest him until he has bared the rotten truth of the matter, but Will is a fisherman. He does not need to hunt; his skewer is there, just waiting to be bitten. He waits for his prey to come to him and they always, always do.

"I find myself less assured than normal of late," Hannibal confesses. "I suppose events have hampered my ability to adapt."

"Captivity hampered your ability to adapt." Will's eyes flash with outrage, and the corner of his mouth twitches in an aborted snarl. He looks away, but Hannibal smiles; it's reassuring to see Will similarly angered by Hannibal's treatment, despite everything. "Do you want to learn again, or settle yourself into your ways like an old dog?"

"Is there a correct answer to that question?" Hannibal asks.

"It will affect my behavior," Will replies coolly. "I suppose your emotions will decide if that makes your answer right or wrong."

"In what manner will your behavior be affected?" Hannibal leans in, food momentarily forgotten. The sight of Will, his conversation, his fascinating mind, is all the nourishment he needs for the moment.

Will smiles. He meets Hannibal's eyes, his own shining with something Hannibal dares to call affection. "The act of redemption depends on the perception of the sinner," he says. "God might see Lucifer redeemed if he were to repent. Lucifer might see his redemption in proving himself right."

Hannibal smiles, as he always does when Will calls him the Devil.

"If you want to adapt again, then I will adapt with you," Will continues. "It's not fair to assume you are the same man I first met. We have both changed."

"Through blood, and sweat, and tears," Hannibal agrees, nodding. "Some would call that cleansing."

"I do," Will tells him. He continues to eat, though at a slower pace. Hannibal's fingers curl and he forces himself to mimic, to match. It will do no good, after all, to let the food grow cold, and he does not want to make Will linger after his meal out of politeness.

"So am I ultimately cleansed, or is there more to do?" Hannibal asks.

"That's up to you, I suppose," Will replies. "You were hobbled and muzzled, castrated, your wings clipped. Now, you are free, to do as you like." He gestures to their plates. "Obviously. If you're confident enough to hunt, then you must be confident enough to attempt resurrection."

Hannibal smiles. "And if I am?"

"Don't shut me out." Hannibal looks up, to find Will has set his utensils down. His fingers curl over them like a student about to play piano, fingertips touching too light, as though he wants to curl his hands into fists but will not allow himself to. His voice is rough and insistent. "We're past the point of you keeping me in the dark."

Hannibal frowns. "Are you upset I hunted without you?"

"Not at the action." Will shakes his head. "I understand you wanted it to be a…surprise." He hesitates on the word. Hannibal knows why. That sentiment holds more horror and blood than either of them care to remember. "But I don't want you to think my concession will set a precedent. I didn't cut you loose and tear us away from everything we knew, only to be left behind."

Hannibal's frown deepens, and he meets Will's eyes. "Will, I have no intention of leaving you behind."

"You've done it before," Will insists. "More than once. You've left me howling in the dark and made me chase you, and I don't want to chase you anymore. I want you here with me, wherever 'here' is."

The distress in his voice affects Hannibal deeply, though he finds himself at a loss of what to say. Will has that effect on him more than any other person he has known.

He sighs, and sets his knife and fork down again.

"Will -."

"I don't want to fight," Will says.

"Nor do I," Hannibal replies. "You're right. But I have chosen to remain. I will happily follow you, now, if that's what you want."

"That's not -." Will shakes his head and grits his teeth. He forcefully spears a halved blossom and eats it, jaw clenching, eyes fixed hard on his empty glass of wine. He sighs, after a moment, through his nose. "I don't need you to _follow_ me, either."

Silence meets the declaration. After a moment, Hannibal stands, and takes Will's wine glass in hand. He pours him a large serving, and sets both glass and bottle down. When Will reaches for it, Hannibal intercepts, taking his hand in a gentle grip. He smiles when Will, immediately, spreads his fingers so that theirs can lace.

"If you do not want to lead, nor follow, then what only remains is us standing side by side," he says.

Will nods. "As equals."

"Of course."

Will nods again. His fingers flex, and tighten between Hannibal's. His shoulders fall, just a fraction, but the action says more than words ever could. That is one of the things Hannibal so adores about Will, how he can communicate so much with just a twitch of his lip, a look in his eyes, a subtle change in body language to denote trust or aggression or any other of the complex array of emotions Will possesses.

"I have existed for a long time on my own, Will," Hannibal says. "I don't want to do that anymore. We can go anywhere, do anything you desire; as long as I am with you, I will want for nothing."

Will's smile is small, but genuine. "I believe you," he says.

Hannibal smiles, and releases Will's hand, so he can continue to eat and drink as he likes. Will immediately takes a long pull from his wine glass, and sets it down when he's finished. He gasps, and wets his lips, chasing the clinging syrup from the heavy wine. His lashes lower, and his shoulders fall another inch. The defensive creature in his chest is relaxing, knowing it is with its own kind.

Hannibal allows himself another smile, and takes up his utensils, returning to his meal. "I have been thinking," he begins, and Will lets out a curious noise; "About our next move. I quite like it here. I think you do, as well."

Will nods.

"We can stay, for a while, if you'd like."

Will presses his lips together, eyes rising to the window. The way they're sitting puts Hannibal at a side view of it, while Will is afforded an unhindered gaze, out into the back garden that is mostly lawn and budding bushes not yet flourishing, and beyond that, open fields, and the hill that leads down to the stream.

"I do like it here," he murmurs, after a moment of contemplative silence. He laughs, lips twisting up into another lopsided smile. "But I think at this point I'd be happy in a cave."

Hannibal smiles. "A cave?" he repeats.

Will nods. "Free."

Hannibal can understand that. Probably better than most. Will's eyes slide to his, and lock, for another long moment that holds promise and mutual agreement. They would be happy, Hannibal thinks, anywhere, in any situation. Much hardship can be weathered in the company of a steadfast and faithful friend.

Will's eyes drop, a smudge of pink staining his cheeks as he goes back to eating. "I should have made something for dessert," Hannibal notes, when their plates are almost cleared and they are each on their second glass of wine.

Will hums, and shrugs. "The meal wasn't lacking."

"Still."

"I can make us something," Will offers. He gestures to their plates. "If you made this, I assume you bought flour, and eggs. We still have some cocoa from the last run, and oil, and everything we need."

Hannibal's brows rise. He knows Will must be capable enough in the kitchen – he would make his dogs their food, after all, and managed to feed himself and his father when he was a child, and continued to pack in enough calories while an adult to be strong and in good physical shape. They have cooked one meal together, and Will has never offered to simply make him something, to date.

"Would you like some help?" he asks, though he senses that this is something Will wants to do on his own.

Will shakes his head, and smiles. "No," he says, "but I'd like you to keep me company."

"Of course," Hannibal replies, thrumming with anticipation – to not only eat what Will gives him, but bear witness to its creation, it is an intimate thing, no matter what Will makes. A reversal of roles both foreign and welcome.

Will nods, and finishes his meal. He stands. Beside him is his cane, which he takes, holding it beside his bad hip as he winces and blusters his way to his full height. Hannibal stands as well, resisting the offer to help. Will is a proud man, still, when all is said and done, and prefers to do things on his own. He's been fishing all day, fighting the current of the stream, and the long trek up and down the hill. He is simply tired, and needs the additional support, which Hannibal cannot fault him for.

He busies himself with clearing their plates and setting the dishes he dirtied in the sink. Will comes in like a wraith, near silent, only the soft taps of his cane giving away his position. Hannibal forces himself not to watch as Will makes his turn about the kitchen, gathering his supplies from the cupboards and fridge.

He cleans the dishes he dirtied and sets them on the drying rack, and washes his hands, before he fetches their wine and Will's water glass, and sets them on the far end of the counter, out of the way. This kitchen is small, and there isn't really room for an observer, and no island like Hannibal's previous home had, but they make do.

As a result, Will's back is turned to him for most of the beginning steps. Hannibal watches as he preheats the oven and stirs a mix of cocoa powder, eggs, flour, sugar, and a splash of milk into a bowl. He adds softened butter and vanilla extract, an explosion of sweetness that makes Hannibal's nostrils flare, and baking powder, a pinch of salt.

Hannibal tilts his head to one side, leaning against the far edge of the counter, nursing his wine. Will greases a pan and pours the mixture into it once it is all the same consistency, a thick concoction the same as molasses that slow-pours its way into the pan, even when Will slides the spatula across the edges to make sure he gets it all.

He wipes the edge of the spatula on the bowl and gathers the last amount, thumbs it free and tastes it, letting out a hum of satisfaction. He meets Hannibal's eyes, and flushes to find Hannibal's attention so thoroughly focused on him. "Want to try it?" he asks, gesturing to the spatula.

Hannibal smiles, and sets his wine down. "You shouldn't eat raw eggs and flour," he scolds gently, but takes the spatula nonetheless, and draws his finger on the edge, lifting it to his mouth to taste.

Will rolls his eyes. "We eat human meat, Hannibal," he replies. He takes the spatula and the bowl back and sets them in the sink, filling it halfway with steaming hot water for it to soak. "I'm sure your nose will warn us if there's something amiss."

Hannibal laughs, but doesn't deny it. The oven beeps as it reaches optimal temperature, and Will slides the pan inside and sets a timer on the oven for twenty-five minutes.

"Brownies?" Hannibal guesses, from the ingredients and the choice of dish and the flavor of the raw mixture.

Will nods, and sighs. He takes his own wine back and turns, resting against the counter, content to simply stand and wait in the kitchen with Hannibal. Neither of them makes a move to return to the dining room, or the living room. The kitchen, after all, is where the excitement happens.

Will smiles. "My dad used to make them for me when I was a kid," he says, and takes a sip of wine, his eyes focused somewhere in the grain of the cabinets, or perhaps farther than that, where memory lies. "Brownies and gumbo were pretty much the only things he got right every time. He'd make them for me when I got good grades." He sighs again. "Or as a bribe, when we were going to move again. I started to associate them with moving. I figured it was apt, now."

"Are we moving?" Hannibal asks curiously.

"No," Will murmurs, and shakes his head. "I'd like to reclaim that association."

"I'm happy to play a part in that," Hannibal says. "However small."

Will grins, and draws his gaze back to the here and now. He turns and meets Hannibal's eyes, his own shining with affection. "Believe me, Hannibal, no part you play will ever be small."

Hannibal hides his smile into another sip of wine. He cannot help note that this will pair nicely with rich chocolate, as well, and dry out their mouths, make their tongues and teeth ache. He moves closer to Will, since the immediate area is now clear of motion. Will shifts his weight to make room, so both of them have space to lean against the counter, unhindered by the oven or the sink. Their shoulders brush, elbows touching.

After a moment, Will sighs, and leans into Hannibal, resting his temple on Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal's fingers go tight around the stem of his wine glass, but his other hand remains gentle, as he drops it and threads his fingers through one of the belt loops on Will's jeans.

"Thank you for dinner," Will says quietly. "The lack of normalcy was giving me whiplash."

"I'm sorry it took me so long to reclaim it, then," Hannibal replies.

"I understand why," Will says. Of course he does. He is blessed and cursed with the ability to understand anything and everything Hannibal does or says. The only fault lies in transparency, and Hannibal has surrendered any attempt at hiding himself away. The ocean water cleansed them, after all, and stripped them bare of what captivity and separation did not.

They remain like that together, until the oven beeps. Will straightens, like a machine being powered back on. Hannibal takes his wine from him, their fingers brushing, and Will smiles as he slides on a pair of oven mitts and removes the brownies from the oven. He tests them with a knife, and it comes back clean. They have risen wonderfully, a pale milk chocolate brown crusted and breaking to reveal a dark moist center.

Will uses the same knife to section them into pieces. "Do you like edges?" he asks. "Or do you prefer middle pieces?"

"In truth, I have no preference," Hannibal replies. Will nods, and takes two small plates from the cabinet, and carefully removes an edge piece for both of them. He pushes the pan back on the stove so that the other brownies can cool. The ones he removed steam gently, and are melting a little since they are still so warm.

"Did you get ice cream?" Will asks. Hannibal shakes his head. "Next time, get ice cream."

"I will," Hannibal promises.

Will takes out two forks, and hands Hannibal his plate and fork. Hannibal sets the plate down and sections off a mouthful. Just as he paused to watch Will take his first bite, Will lingers for him, eyes attentive on his face as he takes the bite.

The brownie is blazingly hot and remarkably sweet, and melts on Hannibal's tongue. He hums, and swallows, relishing the burn of the warm treat as it slides down his throat and settles in his stomach.

"It's delicious, Will," he says. The praise is genuine and heartfelt.

Will smiles, cheeks flushed a ruddy pink. He takes his own bite, testing Hannibal's assessment, and his smile widens when he finds that Hannibal was not lying.

He takes his plate in both hands, fork delicately balanced, and shifts his grip so that he can take his wine glass again. "Shall we eat these in the living room?" he asks. "There's a storm rolling in. We can watch the rain and the lightning while we eat."

"That sounds lovely," Hannibal says. Will turns the oven off, and leads the way into the living room. Hannibal follows.


End file.
